


life without you has been hard

by enbytim



Series: sincerely, me [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, in a universe where timelines don't mean shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:09:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24108766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enbytim/pseuds/enbytim
Summary: it's ian's birthday and here mickey is.... stuck in prisonor: the one where ian visits mickey on his birthday and things maybe aren't that sad
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: sincerely, me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1760374
Comments: 16
Kudos: 172





	life without you has been hard

**Author's Note:**

> i know i'm a day late, but i also started writing this at 12:30 this morning, so. i do not care.
> 
> i don't really know _what_ this is tbh, i just wanted to write something for ian's birthday and the only thing my brain is capable of on short notice is angst. so, here we are. this takes place sometime in between s6 and mid s7, i guess. the show has never cared about timelines so neither shall i <3

There’s a tally above Mickey’s bunk, scratched against the rough white paint in thick black marker. It’s become something of a routine in the one year and five months that he’s been stuck in here, hidden away from the world. Wake up call, scratch another mark onto the wall, fight for who uses the toilet first, breakfast. His sharpie’s running out, which means he’s gonna have to cash in on a small favour sometime soon for a new one. Still, it’s good for at least three more days.

As he does every morning (and night before he goes to sleep), he runs his fingers over the marks and counts off the days.

Today makes five hundred and fifty-three.

Sometimes, when he can bring himself to care, he lets himself count the marks to figure out the date. It’s not like it’s exactly forbidden knowledge or anything, he’s not breaking any rules in knowing, but it’s not like it really _matters_ either. Mickey’s gonna be rotting in here for a _long_ time.

Two thousand, three hundred and sixty-seven days. To be _exact_.

He watches the ink dry, sticky and faded against the flaking paint and doesn’t move until there’s a grunt above him. Damon. His cellmate. The guy’s a total idiot, but he’s not the worst person Mickey’s ever shared a cell with. There had been that one guy back in juvie who used to grind his teeth and giggle in his sleep. At the same fucking time. How Mickey hadn’t killed him remains a mystery.

So, no. Damon’s not the worst guy to be stuck in here with. He shares his smokes, has a good sense of humour, and likes to spring Spanish lessons on Mickey outta nowhere. In return Mickey manages his commissary. Being good with numbers is probably the most useful skill he has in here. Catch him on a good day, and Mickey might even be willing to admit that they’re kinda friends. But only kinda. He _likes_ Damon, most of the time. Making their ‘friendship’ public is a sure-fire way of painting a target on Damon’s back. Mickey knows Terry’s got guys in here, even if they _are_ usually pretty quiet.

But. Well. If Mickey is honest with himself – and he’s not, ever, hasn’t been for a _long_ time – then Damon is just a placeholder. A stand-in. If Mickey lets himself think about it long enough then he eventually stumbles back to red hair, and freckles splashed across pale cheeks like pain splatter, and eyes the colour of grass in the dead of summer.

Mickey tucks his sharpie back down the side of his bunk, just under the edge of his mattress, and rolls onto his back with a low groan. Fuck, but he is _tired_. Tired of sleeping on a mattress thinner than his goddamn forearm, tired of breathing the same recycled air day after fucking day, tired of having to fight for his favourite flavour of jello in the cafeteria every day. Tired of prison. So fucking tired of prison.

“Mornin’.” Damon grunts as he hops down from the top bunk.

He gives Mickey a wary look when he doesn’t fight him for the toilet, and scratches at his balls as he pads over to where it’s tucked against the opposite wall.

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut while Damon pisses, and scrubs a hand over his face. Get your goddamn shit _together_ , Milkovich.

It’s just a day.

It’s just _a_ _day._

Like every other fucking day in this shithole. It doesn’t _mean_ anything.

But he knows. Of course, he knows. There’s a clock carved out in the space between his ribs and every hand points to Ian fucking Gallagher.

Which means it’s not _just a day_. It’s _not_.

May ninth.

Ian’s _birthday_.

As if Mickey needs an excuse to spend all fucking day thinking about him.

“Fuck’s with you?” Damon asks, flushing the toilet.

There’s a pause where he debates on whether he can get away with not washing his hands. It had taken _months_ of Mickey bitching at him before he’d started doing it on his own, and he still likes to push his fucking luck when he thinks Mickey won’t fight him on it.

Mickey raises his eyebrows at him, mouth twitching tiredly when Damon sighs and shuffles over to the sink.

“Nothin’. Just slept like shit last night.” Is what he says, because like _fuck_ is he gonna explain why.

How _would_ he? How do you even begin to bring it up? ‘It’s the love of my life’s birthday today and the last time I saw him he shattered my heart into so many pieces I’m never getting it back, but for some _goddamn_ reason I can’t get his stupid, alien looking face outta my head’?

Fuck no.

Mickey ain’t _stupid_. He knows something like that’s only asking for trouble.

Besides. It’d also be a lie. He’s always thinking about Ian. Has the permanent reminder of how goddamn dumb his heart is across his chest.

Fuck, he needs a drink. An _actual_ drink, not prison booze. He’s not that desperate. Not yet.

There’s another buzz.

Breakfast.

Mickey kicks his worn sheets to the end of his bunk and hauls himself to his feet.

Prison doesn’t care about what day it is.

Maybe one day he’ll learn to get used to that.

*

They’re outside for their designated hour of daily sunshine or whatever the fuck bullshit justification is used to make them do shit. Mickey’s at his usual table, a handful of cards clenched in his fingers, when one of the guards comes to find him.

Which is kinda weird, because Mickey hasn’t asked for anything recently, and he _definitely_ doesn’t have any favours to pay.

“Milkovich!” The guard calls out as he approaches, hand hooked over the holster on his belt.

Mickey rolls his eyes when he catches sight of it. Posturing. It’s all just _posturing_. He doesn’t look happy to be here, at least. Not that any of the guards ever look happy to be here. Sometimes Mickey wonders who the bigger prisoners are. At least he doesn’t have a choice in being here.

He watches the guard, angling his cards outta the way so Carmichael can’t steal glances at his hand. “The fuck you want?”

“You got a visitor.”

Mickey frowns. Who the _fuck_? He hasn’t had a visitor since February, and last he’d heard, Sandy’s back in juvie again. So, there’s no goddamn way it can be her.

“Let’s _go_ , Milkovich. I ain’t got all day.”

Which is a lie. This is his _job_. But Mickey shrugs and throws his cards down onto the table to a chorus of protests as he sends cigarettes scattering. “Deal me out, I guess.”

The guys are still grumbling between themselves and scrambling to reorganise their spoils as he clambers to his feet. He follows the guard – an old guy known only as Poppet to inmates and guards alike, although no one can remember _why_ – across the yard.

It’s getting to be the time of year where the mornings start off cool enough and then slowly grow unbearable, and seeing as it’s almost lunchtime, Mickey’s wiping sweat from his forehead as he’s led back inside. His mind is fucking _racing_ , and it’s a goddamn job to keep himself from asking any questions. He knows it’d be pointless to try, but. Well. He always has been good at pushing his luck.

“You know who it is?”

Poppet grunts at him. Mickey glares at his hunched shoulders.

“Oh, come _on_ , Pops. Not like I get many visitors, can’t blame me for bein’ curious.”

“No idea. Never seen ‘em before.” Poppet allows, although it sounds like he’s saying it through clenched teeth.

Mickey rolls his eyes. _Obviously_. They’ve _just_ established he never has any fucking visitors. Sometimes, on days just like this one, Mickey is convinced Poppet’s a dick on purpose. Just because he can get away with it.

“Give me more than that, man, c’mon. _Something_ to work with here.”

Poppet huffs out a breath that could be a laugh. It’s hard to tell. “Tall kid. Ginger. Wearin’ a uniform.”

Mickey damn near trips over his own feet. Like, he genuinely _stumbles_ and has to catch himself on the wall, so he doesn’t fall flat on his fucking face.

There’s… no way. None. It _can’t_ be. It’s been _months_ – almost a fucking _year_ – since he was last here. And, well. The last time hadn’t exactly promised a return visit.

Mickey takes a deep, gulping breath and tries to steady his heartbeat.

 _Ian_.

*

There aren’t many people in the visitation room, which means he spots Ian almost immediately. Mickey pauses, just for a moment, to study him without interruption. He’s bulked up, shoulders even broader than Mickey remembers, there’s colour in his cheeks, even if his freckles are mostly missing, and his hair’s longer than it had been.

He looks healthy, Mickey realises with a jolt.

Ian’s _healthy_.

Mickey swallows around the sudden lump in his throat as Poppet uncuffs him and pushes him towards the chair opposite Ian.

He sees the _second_ Ian notices him. Sees the way he straightens up, runs long fingers through his hair and makes it even messier than it already had been, rolls his shoulders like he’s expecting a fight. Picks up the phone, and although the way he holds it to his ear is loose, his knuckles are white around the plastic.

Mickey sits down. Picks up the phone. Takes a deep breath.

“Gallagher.”

He watches Ian’s eyes close. Ian looks _good_. Like Poppet said, he’s wearing some kinda uniform – although Mickey hadn’t been expecting, you know, an _actual_ uniform – and has he shifts slightly, Mickey catches sight of the _EMT_ scrawled across his shoulder.

Something hot coils in his chest. It takes a second to recognise it as _pride_.

Ian’s got his shit together. Ian’s _okay_.

His breath hitching has Ian opening his eyes. They’re bright. _Alive_.

“Hey, Mick.”

 _Now_ he knows why Ian had closed his eyes. The sound of Ian’s voice washes over him, leaves him feeling warm. Which is _bullshit_ because he still has no idea what Ian’s even _doing_ here.

“You went all official on me, huh?” He jerks his chin at Ian’s jacket, and the way Ian _glows_ has him biting on the inside of his bottom lip to hide a smile.

Ian nods, his hand relaxing slightly around the phone. “I’m an EMT, came straight from work.”

Mickey scratches at his jaw as he studies Ian’s face. It’s a good face, so sue him. He sniffs. “What’re you doin’ here, man?”

Ian tenses. Works his mouth a couple times, like he’s trying to think of what to say and coming up blank. Eventually he shrugs. “It’s selfish, I know it is. But. I, uh. Wanted to see you.”

Mickey’s heart _aches_. He drums his fingers against the table because it’s as close as he’ll let himself get to putting his hand on the glass. It would be a lie to say he hasn’t been wanting to hear those words for a long fucking time. But there’s something in the way Ian says it that makes him pause.

“Everything okay?”

Ian’s shoulders slump. _Bingo_. He always has been able to read Ian like an open book, and it’s way more satisfying than he’ll ever admit to see that hasn’t changed.

“Just… got a lot going on, y’know?”

Mickey raises his eyebrows and scratches at his eyebrow with his free pointer finger. “Like what?”

Ian scoffs, like there’s so much he doesn’t know where to even start. “Fiona almost got married, Lip’s in rehab, Debbie’s got a fuckin’ _baby_ , and Carl’s… Carl.”

And, okay, yeah. Maybe that _is_ a lot. But the one that really catches Mickey’s attention is Lip – he _knows_ how important Lip is to Ian, and vice fucking versa. Has seen it first-hand more than once. He can’t say he knows much about rehab, though, but there’re enough guys in here going cold turkey that he thinks he gets it.

“How you holdin’ up?” He asks and Ian gives him a disbelieving look.

“Me? You’re askin’ how _I’m_ doing?”

“Well,” Mickey says slowly, “I ain’t gonna ask how _I’m_ doin’, am I?”

Ian’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying to stop himself from smiling. Then it fades and the way Ian’s looking at him really should be fucking _illegal_. Like, Mickey’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him and he’s kinda in awe of him. It’s not fair. Ian’s been gone for _months_ and it’s not _fair_ and _fuck_ Mickey loves him.

“Not what I meant, asshole. Why aren’t you mad at me? You _should_ be. _I’m_ mad at me.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Mickey _can’t_ be mad at Ian. His brain, or his heart, or whatever fucking part of him that is responsible for loving Ian Gallagher, just isn’t wired that way.

That doesn’t stop him from asking the one question that’s been burning in the pit of his stomach, though. “Why ain’t you visited me?”

Ian swallows thickly. “It’s hard. Seeing you through the glass, y’know?”

Mickey gets it. It _is_ fucking hard, seeing Ian on the other side of that glass, and knowing he’s living a life Mickey’s never gonna be a part of. He nods jerkily.

Then Ian says something that has Mickey blinking back tears, and honestly _fuck_ him for being so goddamn earnest about it. “I miss you. All the time. Which I know isn’t fair to say to you. But I do.”

“Milkovich! Time’s up, get your ass moving.”

Mickey sighs, blinks hard a couple times and tries to smile at Ian. Ian, for his part, looks like he’s just had the rug pulled out from under him. Mickey doesn’t move yet, can’t quite bring himself to.

“You gonna come back?”

Ian nods. “Yeah, Mick. I’m coming back. If you’ll let me.”

“You say the dumbest shit, Gallagher.”

“Milkovich!”

Mickey huffs out a breath and rolls his eyes at a smiling Ian. If he doesn’t move pretty fucking soon, Poppet’s gonna be over here doing it for him. He gives one last long look, takes him in, and smiles.

“Happy birthday, Ian.”

**Author's Note:**

> and a few weeks/months later mickey breaks out of prison, what a gift for ian <3
> 
> title is 100% brought to you by 'sincerely me' from the dear evan hansen soundtrack
> 
> thank you for reading! i hope you had a good time, even if it was a little sad. i promise i'm working on the next chapter of [to stop our hearts from drowning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23400652/chapters/56080036)
> 
> as always, i am on: [tumblr](http://floristmick.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/tiredavatar)


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